Duchess by Day, Mistress by Night (Rebellious Desires)

by Reid, Stacy

  Impervious to her incredulity, he continued. “That way I can see your pretty pink—”

  Her hand flew as if it had a life of its own and slapped his cheek. “You’re loathsome,” she gasped out, cradling her stinging palm. “And vulgar!”

  His mouth curved faintly in provoking amusement. “Ah…too much, too soon?” he asked, unperturbed that her palm print had reddened his cheek. “A kiss then, and I release you from any indebtedness you feel.”

  His voice was a rough murmur, brushing softly against her skin in a wicked caress. He made her want to do things with that cruelly sensual slant of mouth. Kiss him, perhaps…or order him to drop to his knees before her and kiss her there. Visceral chaotic images burned in her mind, and a blush ran along her entire body. She shook her head, trying to clear the ridiculous thoughts.

  Good heavens, how was this man able to rouse the wanton within her? She should not have read the naughty book with the very scandalous drawings Daphne had shown her. She grabbed her scandalous thoughts and crushed them under her mental heels, praying they would never resurface. She maintained her composure, because that was what she’d been trained to do.

  She had been groomed to be a duchess—love and passion were never a part of the deal. It had always been about her duty and moral obligations to her title and family. To even acknowledge an attraction to this man was a betrayal of everything she had been reared to believe. It was only a few weeks ago the Gazette had named her one of the ton’s most influential women. It had declared she was admired for her fashionable elegance and preeminent position within society. Her reaction to such a common man was truly unpardonable.

  The devil smiled as if he understood the awful and very absurd temptation he represented.

  She dragged in a ragged breath. “I will pay you for your services,” she said frostily.

  “I believe I shall keep you in my debt.”

  Fury lit in her veins. “And if I should say my debt is discharged if you refuse payment?”

  He studied her with unnerving calm. “Then I would agree it is discharged.”

  The man confused her. “Why will you not accept payment?”

  “Money?”

  She pointedly ignored the mocking gleam in his eyes. “Yes!”

  “I have enough wealth to last me ten lifetimes.”

  “Then why do you trade in…in whatever it is that you trade in?”

  There was the slightest of hesitation, and if she weren’t watching the dreadful man so keenly, she would have missed the telling pause.

  “My motivations are my own. You are not in my debt, duchess. It is a pity.” Then with a short bow, he walked away.

  She stood frozen in the library, at once disconcerted and exhilarated. He said his favor of finding Jane’s location was without a charge, so there was no debt, but Georgiana did not believe the dratted man. She took a calming breath. Dear Lord, she had never felt more intensely alive. Such an acknowledgment felt like the confession of a grave sin. Their association was over, and that was all that mattered, and the spark of interest that had ignited in her blood was of no importance.

  Chapter Four

  The duchess rode her horse with regal bearing. Rhys was certain it was she; it would be unpardonable that he would have such a swift reaction to another woman. That would be liable to kill him, for he had already spent the last week thinking about the duchess, curious as to the way she had so effortlessly captivated his interest when his thoughts should have only been preoccupied with business matters. It was a pity she hadn’t required much to give him the leverage needed to chain her to his side. When he made the duchess beholden to him, she should feel deeply indebted to grant him whatever he desired, instead of fighting the connection. That was one of the reasons he ensured his favors possessed coveted value. To demand a woman of her stature to grant him the connections he sought…no, he needed a more secure foothold.

  Why was she alone in Hyde Park, alone at such an ungodly hour? It was barely six. On his way to the park, he had passed a procession of carriages, no doubt retiring from some ball. She should be abed, lazing the day away with the rest of her lot before they deck themselves in their finest riding habits and parade down Rotten Row. The dawn was just breaking, the sun still hidden by the clouds, the sky painted in gray shades of misery to match the chill in the air. He detected no companion with her, and she trotted lightly along the path without a care in the world, as if there were no lurking dangers in this part of the world.

  How naive those of high society were.

  It was his habit whenever he was away from the country to ride each morning before the lanes were filled with members of the ton. He found riding peaceful and utilized the park often. He had never encountered the duchess there before. In fact, he hardly ever crossed paths with another soul this early.

  He urged his horse into a canter, keeping a discreet distance. He trailed her for a few minutes, admiring the confident and skillful way she sat her horse. At times, she urged the animal into a gallop yet remained gracefully in the sidesaddle. Several times he tensed, expecting her to slip at any moment and break her damned neck. This was one of the reasons his sisters hardly ventured into Hyde Park for a ride—they were used to the freedom of the countryside and sitting astride.

  The duchess slowed her horse to a gentle trot, then halted. He, too, stopped, canting his head. Was she meeting a lover? Had she found the man her brother had urged her to bring to bed? Rhys’s gut tightened in regret at the image of another man tasting those lips or riding her to fulfillment. God’s blood.

  A rueful laugh escaped him. He wanted her…wanted to be that lover she had looked so lonely for.

  Certainly, it was a foolhardy desire. She probably hated the very sight of him. Rhys had goaded her unmercifully, had been vulgar as she accused him, and then he had relieved her of any debt to him. His family would have been appalled and distressed by the crude manner in which he had spoken with her. Despite his mother’s efforts in teaching him of the ways of society, he’d always seen people instead of the title they placed before their name as if that defined their characters. He had business dealings with highly placed lords and government officials who had shown themselves to be as depraved and dishonorable as members of the criminal classes. No…it was people he had tried to see first, always. The duchess had seemed so cold and aloof, he’d wanted to pierce her armor of genteel reserve and eminent respectability she’d cloaked herself in. He had been deliberately crude and had been rewarded with a stinging slap…and passion. The lady had enough fire to burn, and he wanted to be engulfed in her flames. Rhys concluded he had been momentarily afflicted by madness.

  He smiled when she suddenly whirled her horse to face him. Rhys trotted closer so that she could identify him.

  “Mr. Tremayne, how unexpected. For a moment I thought you a dastardly villain,” she said with a haughty lift of her brow.

  “Nothing so sinister.”

  “Then why have you been following me?”

  Fascinating. He was used to operating in the shadows, weaving among the masses unseen. He’d not realized he’d bumbled and drawn her attention. Still, he had been several paces behind her. She was a keen observer. “The park is lonely. Any scoundrel could come upon you.”

  “You were concerned for my welfare? How gallant,” she said with biting sarcasm. “My carriage is parked nearby with footmen. I believe if I scream I shall be heard. The only scoundrel who may have the boldness to approach me is you, Mr. Tremayne.”

  Clearly, she hadn’t forgiven his ungentlemanly behavior in her library. “I can see you are a woman prone to hold a grudge, Your Grace.”

  She flashed him a quelling glance. “You were boorish and improper, and I am not minded to forgive you.”

  “Ah, there is no legacy so rich as honesty. Your bluntness is…refreshing.” He whipped off his top hat and bowed. “Forgive my ungentlemanly utterances a few days past.”

  Her eyes widened in evident surprise. “You read Shakesp
eare?”

  “I forgot the aristocracy believe that being well-read is only for their lot,” he said flatly, a bit startled that her perceived judgment rankled.

  She flushed. “I believe nothing of the sort.”

  “Perhaps you should direct your thoughts to my apology.”

  Without making a reply, she wheeled her horse around and urged the exquisite mare a few paces forward. She turned her face toward him, and a slow smile curved her beautiful mouth. “I will admit I was lost in my thoughts. I do not mind your company—that is, if you are of a mind to ride with me.”

  Surprise jolted through him. He nodded and urged his horse to ride beside hers. Of course, he spent an inordinate amount of time discreetly observing her. She had a small mole on the left side of her chin, a few strands of her raven-black hair had slipped from its chignon and curled becomingly against her cheek, and there was the smallest of overlap with two of her bottom teeth. The pulse at her throat fluttered visibly, and at times, when she thought she examined him covertly, there was a wary attraction in her gaze. Dear God, every detail of her, no matter how small, was imprinted on his mind. He savored the feel of her presence so close to his and the fact that he could want another with such intensity.

  He wondered if she would have been so at ease in his presence if they had been amongst her set. They cantered in silence, and he found he did not want to ruin the serenity with chatter. She seemed like-minded, and they simply rode, enjoying each other’s presence before they would return to their respective worlds.

  …

  The Earl of Mansfield owed Rhys, and he would collect tonight. He pinched the bridge of his nose, wondering if he was losing his senses. The earl had been in his debt for a little over a year, and he had not made use of the man before now. The earl was powerful, a pawn Rhys had not wanted to relinquish so easily. He’d not even used the man’s influence to help launch his sister into society…but he was now thinking to call in the earl’s debt for an invitation to his countess’s ball, simply because he wanted to see her—the duchess.

  He took a deep restorative breath at the shocking realization. There could be no doubt he was losing his goddamned mind. A duchess was on the highest rung of the social ladder, even a dowager duchess. She had influence and knowledge he needed access to. That was all that should matter. His family’s wants must always come before his—they had always been his priority. But the ease at which his errant thoughts and behavior had betrayed the vows he’d made to them and himself was infuriating.

  Powerful men, not all of them lords, ruled the underworld of London with ruthlessness, each man controlling their respective territories and investments. And then there were men like him, who owed their allegiance to no one. But his services were coveted by everyone because he understood loyalty and he produced results. His business was not only in the brokerage of information. Rhys was much smarter than that and had made the realization years ago when he had only been fourteen. His sisters needed him to be more than a trafficker for the dregs or even for the high society of London. He had plotted long and hard while other men had been asleep, or racing, or gambling, on how to conquer the world for his family.

  He’d become a legitimate businessman with stakes in property and land, shipping, and even a factory that manufactured muskets, rifles, and pistols. Still, it was not enough. His sisters had been grounded to their lowest, and he wanted the highest life had to offer. Rhys would not stop until their happiness had been secured. All of them deserved to be treated as ladies. Titles bought respectability, security, and in their own way, unmatched power. He wanted to see them permanently well-connected. The duchess could be his means to achieve this, and his unruly and vulgar tongue had made her slip through his grasp. Their meeting in the park had shown her to be less haughty and perhaps open to more. Tonight, he would assess how best to sway her to his side.

  He surged to his feet and with rapid strides left his study and walked down the hall to the drawing room. Wrenching the door open, he spilled into the room and faltered. There it was…the warmth, the pleasure that burst inside his chest whenever he looked upon his family. In so many ways they had been his salvation, his reason to fight, to push, to conquer.

  Instead of being seated on the sofa, his sisters were sprawled on the carpet, without an ounce of decorum, playing cards, talking, and giggling softly. It pleased him to see them so joyful. These were the moments that reminded him that everything he did was worth it.

  His sisters had proved themselves resilient, enduring one hardship after another without complaint. They had done all they could to make everything more bearable. He had worked hard to provide them with a comfortable living, and then a luxurious one. His mother had done her part, but she had been so gentle, still a gentleman’s daughter throughout their disgrace. She had kept her former life alive for the girls, regaling them with grand tales of society seasons, the finery and wonderful glitter of high society. And he had watched as the hunger for that elusive life grew in their eyes. Then the words had spilled from Lydia’s fingers a few years past—wouldn’t it be grand if we could be a part of the ton?

  It had struck him that being a part of the aristocracy was truly their right. Rhys knew what his sisters dreamed of in their quiet moments. Twenty-three-year-old Lydia, with her deafness, wanted a man who would love her despite her disability. She had a romantic soul that he should have made some effort to curb, for it would not serve her well. The twins, Joanna and Grace, had only attained their twentieth birthday a month past. Joanna wanted to open a bookshop and had no thought for marriage, though at times he believed she removed the desire from her heart for fear of disappointment. How many gentlemen would want a young woman with scars on her face for all society to see? It was a question she had asked him dozens of times. She had an elegance of mind and sweetness of character that shouldn’t be trampled upon. Grace, the hellion of the family, was the antithesis of her name.

  Lydia said something too low for him to discern, but they all laughed, their joy and merriment pulling a smile to his lips. They were filled with such bubbling hope that he never wanted to see it crushed. He cleared his throat, and their heads snapped up, Lydia following the movement of her sisters. There was such genuine welcome suffusing their features when they recognized him.

  “Oh, brother, do join us, we are playing a quite rousing game of whist.”

  He strolled closer. “I fear I must decline. I have urgent business to attend to.”

  “You do?” Grace asked with an elegant arch of her brow, no doubt perfected from secretly watching the women of society when they’d held balls. Of all his sisters, she was the one most enthralled by the nobility. Many nights he had stood in the shadows, a discreet, protective force, following her as she crept about the west end, spying on their so-called betters. No doubt she would be mortified if she knew he was aware of her midnight adventures. Her wistful sighs always pierced him and pushed him to work harder.

  “Wait…why are you dressed so smartly?” Grace demanded, her spine snapping straight. “I’ve never seen you looking so handsome and elegant before.”

  “I’m off to a ball,” he said, tugging at his silken cravat.

  She gasped in delight. “How positively divine. I do so wish we could all come with you.”

  “Another ball,” Lydia signed. “How unprecedented but quite exciting. I wish I could attend, as well.”

  “Not I,” said Joanna, sniffing in apparent distaste, but he spied the vulnerability in her eyes, and he did not miss the way her fingers lightly touched the scar marring her right cheek down to her chin.

  That wound was a reminder of how he had failed to protect his sisters. Joanna’s facial scars, Lydia’s deafness, and Grace’s untamed wildness. Every day he looked upon their faces and swore he would improve their lives so they would never want or suffer again.

  “I’ll be sure to be observant so I can regale you with tales of the aristocracy,” he said gruffly.

  “We’ll wait up,” Grace
chimed in, giggling.

  “We are waiting on Mamma to return from her book club,” Joanna said. “Take pity on us and return at a good hour, for they’ll not sleep a wink until they hear about your night.”

  Rhys chuckled and hauled himself to his feet. He had to depart the drawing room before he gave in to the urge to simply spend the night with them. He collected his coat and hat and headed for his waiting carriage. After settling himself against the squabs, he rapped the roof. Then he turned his thoughts inward and plotted his next move. Less than half an hour later he was politely ushered through the townhouse door of Lord Mansfield. Several curious glances were directed Rhys’s way. However, most of the illustrious guests ignored his presence.

  He strolled through the throng, surprised at how many people were crammed in the earl’s townhouse. A few faces recognized him, namely the prime minister, Lord Liverpool, and Viscount Sheffield. While both managed to mask their surprise, none greeted him, not even with a simple nod of acknowledgment.

  Amusement rushed through him, for just three nights ago at The Asylum, they had all played faro together. He understood and did not judge them for their actions. Over the years, he’d learned to cloak himself in a mask of civility, some semblance of breeding, and eloquence. But he knew it for what it was…a sham, and at times it seemed all of society knew just from looking at him. There had been a time in his life when their judgment had seared him, but not anymore. Now all he cared about was the happiness of his sisters. And perhaps, the baffling attraction he felt for the duchess? Truly, what was it about her?

  Rhys placed himself strategically beside a Grecian column atop the landing overlooking the wide and elegant ballroom.

  “Are we looking for someone?” a voice drawled to his left.

  “Mansfield,” Rhys greeted as the earl halted beside him.

  “I wouldn’t think your society was here tonight,” the earl mused, shooting him a side-eyed glance.

  Rhys allowed his gaze to scan the room. London’s wealthiest and most powerful seemed packed into the earl’s townhouse. Despite the crowd, he effortlessly recognized the duchess. From the young bucks and debutantes surrounding her, she was evidently being fawned and preened over. A mane of the blackest hair he’d ever beheld was piled high atop her head in intricate curls. A blue gown sheathed her frame, daring and provocative, for it was cut so low her décolletage was delightfully displayed. Rhys faltered momentarily but caught himself, though not soon enough.